


Injuries and Cricket

by Sianco (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: Cricket, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Injury, M/M, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:00:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/Sianco
Summary: "There is nothing that brings a pair closer than injury and cricket."(duplicate posting)





	Injuries and Cricket

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a duplicate of an orphaned work, that I'm reclaiming to put back under my own name (teen!me was far too enthusiastic about orphaning /o\ ).

In my life, there have been countless occasions where I have sustained an injury, either due to cases or due to my clumsiness. However, they are usually not serious enough to warrant anything more than the day in bed, usually with Poirot fussing over me, or sometimes Miss Lemon, if Poirot wasn't available. Which wasn't often – Poirot often made himself available when I was injured, to the annoyance of some, chiefly Inspector Japp if it was mid-case.

But this time, it was far more serious. On our last case, we had embarked on a surprise chase through the narrow streets of a country town in pursuit of a thief. The thief ended up climbing over a fence into a farmer's field. We followed him over, but stopped at the top of the fence. The thief had fallen, and his trouser leg was caught between two of the wooden slats. We leant over to pull him back, and as we did so, I spotted the stolen items lying in the grass.

Unfortunately, I didn't spot the angry farmer with a shotgun at the top of the field.

I don't remember much after the bullet hit my side, only that I fell from the fence, and woke up in hospital three days later. Poirot had been by my bedside when I awoke, and although the pain medication did not make me a very talkative person, he stayed with me until I fell into the oblivion again. I later discovered that Poirot had stayed by my side whilst I was out. I was touched by the little man's regard for me.

Once I had sufficiently convinced the doctors (and Poirot) that I felt fine, which took at least two weeks' worth of pleading, I was finally allowed back home to Whitehaven, with strict instructions not to do any vigorous exercise for at least three weeks. I was quite put out by this advice, but Poirot showed me that I did not always need it. You see, Poirot and I had been lovers for the past year, and yet we were like newlyweds in many ways. However, in those days following my sojourn in the hospital, we spent many hours in the evening only exploring each other's bodies once again, finding old favourites and new. In fact, due to this new pastime, Poirot had developed a slight fascination with the back of my neck. Not that I was complaining, of course – it was nice to have any part of my body treated like he treated my neck – but after weeks of lying around in bed, not doing much, I yearned for something a little rougher.

Unfortunately, my yearnings would have to wait. Poirot had received a case. A man had requested he come investigate a rather significant theft from his bayside shop in Wales. Although he had originally planned to decline, as I was in no fit state to be chasing murderers around with him, I had convinced him to go on without me.

"You'll be terribly bored if you don't go." I told him as we reclined together on the settee. I lay inbetween his legs, and he was gently playing with the hairs on the back of my neck.

"Perhaps," he replied slowly. "But the cases, they are more interesting when you are there."

"Really?" I asked doubtfully, tipping my head back to look at him, upside down. He pressed a kiss to my forehead.

" _Mais oui._ Your vivid imagination keeps me quite entertained."

I scowled at him, and he laughed, his body shaking beneath me. "Perhaps I shan't go with you again if that is the only reason." I told him.

"Of course not. Where would I be without you, _mon chou_? Many a time you have pointed myself in the right direction with a careless remark. You know what is needed for any occasion, and where to find the best restaurants. And…"

"And?" I asked. In reply, he leant down and kissed me hard on the lips. After weeks of gentleness, I welcomed the change, and responded feverishly. When we broke away , we were both flushed and breathing heavily. Poirot's eyes glimmered at me, and I grinned giddily at him.

"That is the other reason, _mon_ Arthur." He whispered gently in my ear. His breath made me shudder with pleasure. I leant back to steal another kiss, but this one was gentler than the previous. When he pulled away, I pouted at him, quite put out. He smiled gently at my expression.

"Not until you are better, _mon ami_." He said in response to my look. I sighed in frustration. He went back to playing with the tail end of my curls, smiling all the while.

* * *

While Poirot was in the Welsh bayside town, I had expected that I would stay and mope around the flat for a while. However, the day Poirot left, a great stroke of luck befell me. A telegram arrived on our doorstep, from an old friend of mine, Jimmy Alexon. We had been friends since we first met each other in our boyhood, but we hadn't seen each other since he was invalidated from the army due to losing his arm. We had kept up a sporadic correspondence since then, however, and it was nice to hear from him again.

In his telegram, he talked of his nephews, of cricket, of the house in the Welsh Valleys and of more cricket – he liked cricket more than I did! He then went on to invite me to spend a few nights there – his brother Bruno was coming over to stay too, along with his wife and children, and it would be nice to have me there too.

I had to plead with Miss Lemon to let me go, seeing as Poirot had left me in her care, but after a few minutes she gave in, and soon enough she had booked my place on the first train tomorrow, and had even gone to the length of running to the telegram office to send my reply. I thanked the heavens above that I didn't have to plead to Poirot to let me go – he would not have let me leave the house, let alone leave the country.

Jimmy greeted me with an over exuberant handshake, mouth moving a mile a minute, talking of everything and anything that had happened since our parting. I listened keenly, for Jimmy always did have the best stories to share.

It took nearly twenty minutes to arrive at the house, but it felt like five with Jimmy in the car. He kept me entertained the whole trip back, and didn't close his mouth until we were inside the house. Bruno and Cecilia, his wife, were waiting for us in the foyer, and they greeted me almost exactly as Jimmy did. I was not as close to Bruno or Cecilia as I was to Jimmy, but we were good friends all the same.

We went into the lounge, and I was introduced to the new members of Bruno and Cecilia's clan. I had met some of them before – like James and Lucas, who were only a few years younger than I, and the only two daughters, Charlotte and Mary. Mary was only a babe when I last saw her, but Charlotte was only preceded in age by Lucas. There were now eight of them, and with the addition of a pair of sons from both Lucas and Charlotte, the number of Jimmy's nephews and grand-nephews in the house added up to twelve. I was slightly curious as to how they all slept in this house, but I soon found out – there were six bedrooms in the house, and they split themselves into pairs or groups of three to sleep, with the exception of Mary, who had her own small room. I was to take the small attic room on the top floor, which varied between being a study, a guest bedroom and a drawing room.

The start of my sojourn to Wales was as pleasant as can be. In the mornings, either Bruno or Cecilia would make breakfast for us all. After breakfast, Bruno would leave for work, and all the children would surge forward to help with washing up. The rest of the day would be spent doing all manner of different things, sometimes as calm as reading, sometimes as rough as overlooking the children's games of British Bulldogs. Either way, the majority of the time spent after lunch was used to play cricket in the local park.

Jimmy's nephews and nieces were as mad about cricket as he was. There was always the argument about who would bat first (usually sorted by Cecilia tossing a coin or rolling a dice, whichever was nearest) and about who was on what team. Since I was staying, Jimmy persuaded me to be team captain and choose a side, while he took the other team. It was a good arrangement - the exercise did my injury well, and I always woke up the next morning feeling fully refreshed.

On the the fourth morning, however, I woke up to an aching wound and a terrible feeling that something wasn't quite right with the world. Rising, I looked out the window. It was a glorious summers day, not a cloud in the sky, but I still felt something was off.

I turned, and started to get ready for the day. My face was unusually pale in the reflection of the full length mirror. I slapped both my cheeks in an attempt to draw some colour into them. They remained pale.

As I searched through my suitcase for a pair of socks, the loud pattering of children's feet alerted me to the call of breakfast. I had not notice the lateness of the hour – I had expected it to be my usual waking hour of seven o' clock, but it was actually gone nine. _Perhaps it is the late hour that is causing this,_ I thought to myself, as I pulled a single white sock from the case. _I shall probably feel better shortly._

With that thought in mind, I descended the several sets of stairs and joined the family for breakfast, where we head a hearty meal of warm toast and bacon, intertwined with the common talk of cricket.

* * *

The off-feeling I had in the morning did not dissipate as I had expected it to. It hung around for most of the morning like a noxious gas. Cecilia noted that I looked a bit peaky at the breakfast table, and put extra helpings of bacon on my plate. When we went to the local park to play cricket, the boys all voted that I should bat first, in an attempt to make me feel better. I appreciated their efforts, but I just couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness about today.

We set up in the usual clearing, and soon we were off. Jimmy was bowling, with his rag-tag team of boys fielded. Mary was batting with me, after having to convince the boys to let her play, and the rest of my team were sat on the embankment, enjoying the summer sunshine. After a few test shots, I started to hit them further and further, until the last shot ended up in a nearby oak tree. All the fielding boys ran towards it, as did most of my team, looking for something to do. Mary and I switched places, and she sat by the wickets, watching the boys from afar.

"That's another six, Arthur." Jimmy told me as I stopped at the bowler's stumps. "What's got you in such a temper?"

I sighed, and dropped the bat from its previous position at my shoulder. It was well known among the boys from previous times we've played that I could only ever hit sixes when I was in quite a foul mood. Most of the boys just let me be, and hoped to God I was on their side when we played. Jimmy, however, had no qualms about unearthing whatever had gotten me in such tempers, whether I bit his ear off for his troubles or not. He was as stubborn as a mule in that regard.

"Just my side," I told him. "I'll need to get the doctor poke around in the shot hole again."

"A shot wound? You were shot?" Jimmy asked.

"Yes, around four weeks ago." He whistled.

"Hell, Arthur! What do you think you're doing, playing cricket with a shot side?"

I self-consciously rubbed the bandages that covered the hole. I had neglected to tell Jimmy of my recent injury

"It's not that bad." I half-heartedly protested.

"Not that bad? Arthur, once we win this game, you'd better get right up to the hospital. Shot wounds are serious!"

"I don't see you asking a doctor to poke you with a needle," I replied ruefully. "And yet, you're the one who lost an arm."

Jimmy snorted and waved the stump of his right arm. "That's because they don't need to. See?" He pointed the end of his arm at him. "It's healing quite nicely now. Still looks like the back end of a pig, though."

"I do wish you'd stop being so crude." I told him, grabbing the chance to change the subject before Jimmy unravelled the truth.

Jimmy looked at me for a while, before tipping his head back and laughing, obviously deciding to let the subject slide for now. "Ah, Arthur, always the innocent gentleman! You should try talking like me sometime – gets all the girls going. That and the arm. There are few things in life that bring the girls closer to you than injury. Oh, and cricket."

"I'd rather not."

"Confirmed bachelor, hey? Ah well. Worth a tr-" A cheer, which came from the other side of the clearing, stopped me from discovering what Jimmy was about to say – one of the boys had evidently retrieved the ball from the branches of the oak tree. Jimmy clapped me on the shoulder, before he jogged towards the group of boys, probably to make sure whichever nephew it was that was in the tree did not hurt himself coming down. I watched him go, the feeling of trepidation still holding me in its grasp.

* * *

The news came to me two days later. At the time, I was relaxing on the park embankment, talking to James and Lucas, the oldest boys, about their jobs in the local bank. It was only the young boys who were playing today, and I was roped in, along with James and Lucas, to keeping an eye on them all. Jimmy and Bruno had work to do today, and Cecilia had taken the girls to town for the afternoon, so we were all on child watching duty.

I was busy discussing different types of medicine with James, when quite suddenly a dark shadow loomed above me. I looked up, curious as to who it was, and met the stern gaze of a police inspector whose face I didn't recognize.

James, however, recognised him instantly. "Why, it's Bobby Jones!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet and shaking him violently by the hand. Lucas rose too, and greeted him with quite a firm handshake. I rose too and shook his hand too, though not with the vigour and roughness of James.

"Nice to see you lads here again," Jones greeted them gruffly, but with the warmth of someone who obviously knew the two well. "Not causing any trouble, I hope."

"Never." James replied innocently. "We're on family duty at the moment, anyhow. No time for trouble."

"Of course." Jones then turned to me. "You wouldn't happen to be Captain Hastings, would you?"

"Why, yes I am." I replied. "But how did you know-"

"I've been sent here with a message for you." He told me, and by his now grim countenance, I could see it wasn't to be good news. James and Lucas both noted the seriousness of Jones voice too, and huddled closer, as if to defend the conversation from prying ears.

"Oh?" I said with as much nonchalance as I could muster. "From who?"

"The hospital. A friend of yours, a Mister Poirot-"

" _Poirot!_ " I exclaimed, feeling as if every nerve in my body had suddenly been set alight. I did not care that Jones had butchered Poirot's name, I only cared that my partner was in hospital, probably in pain.

"Is he alright?" I asked worriedly. "What's happened?"

"Half a wall fell on him, that's what happened."

" _What?_ "

"Well, than Frenchman just solved the case, when the guy who did it tried to scarper. Took a car, lost control and drove into the wall that he was stood behind. Don't worry," Jones added hastily at my panic-stricken expression. "He's only bruised, and he had a little concussion afterwards, but he's fine now. They may even let him out of the hospital soon."

"Soon? When did this happen?"

"Around three days ago."

"Two days ago."

"How come I only know now?"

"Well, we had quite a bit of trouble finding you. We sent a message up to London, only to get a message back saying you'd left the city days ago. Took us quite a while to discover where you actually were."

Two days Poirot had been in hospital, and I had not been to see him once. I felt wracked with guilt that I had not been with him when he most needed me. He was with me every day when I was shot – why was I not with him?

"I'll need to see him." I said decisively. "James, Lucas, could you-"

"We'll keep an eye on the children, don't worry." Lucas interjected before I could finish.

"Yes, you get yourself to Mister Poirot." James added.

"If you wish," Jones spoke. "I can drop you off at the hospital on my way back, since I'm passing. Though you'll have to find your own way back."

"I'm sure Uncle Jimmy wouldn't mind picking you up." Lucas said. "I'll tell them where you are, and you phone when you need to come back."

"Thank you." I told them gratefully. James and Lucas smiled understandingly, while Jones coughed awkwardly and told me to follow him. I said my goodbyes and followed.

The journey to the hospital would be one of the slowest I've endured. It took around quarter of an hour to get there, but to me it felt like an ice age had passed us by. I spent most of the time in the car worrying about Poirot, completely silent and grim. Jones seemed to understand, and remained silent too.

When we arrived, Jones had a few words with the receptionist. She listened, before nodding once and turning to me.

"Down the blue corridor, room number sixteen." She told me, pointing me towards the corresponding colour. Jones nodded at me before leaving, and I was left to traverse the corridor alone."

The corridor seemed to go on forever, but soon I found myself hearing the faint voice of a very recognisable Belgian. I followed the sound of his voice down the corridor, before stopping outside number sixteen. Here, Poirot's voice was clearly heard through the door – he seemed to be arguing with the doctor over something. I stood outside for a while, listening with quiet relief. If Poirot was well enough to argue with the doctor, he could not be too badly hurt.

I stepped forward and opened the door. Poirot was too busy arguing to notice my presence, but the doctor looked up almost as soon as I stepped inside.

"Look, monsieur, I will speak to you another time. You have a visitor." He nodded at me, before leaving the room. Poirot turned to see who the vistor was.

"Hastings?"

"Poirot." I smiled with relief. Checking that there was no-one else in the room, I stepped forward and embraced him, surrounding himself with that all familiar scent. Poirot curled up against me, but I could feel an undercurrent of tension in his body – he was angry at me. I knew why. I reluctantly disentangled myself from him and sat on the edge of his bed. He turned to face me, and he looked so dejected that I hastened to hold his hand in mine. He deliberately kept his loose, but I held on regardless.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier." I told him sincerely. I heard him mutter _pah_ under his breath, but I felt his hand curl slightly around mine. "I wanted to see you as soon as I heard."

"Then why did you wait two days before seeing me?" Poirot asked in a quiet tone.

"I didn't. I heard what had happened to you around twenty minutes ago." Poirot looked at me sharply, his brows knotted.

" _Comment?_ The Inspector Jones had sent a message to London as soon as I arrived here. Were you not in the flat?"

"No. You see, I've been staying here with a friend for a few days. The message didn't get to me until this afternoon."

" _Mon ami,_ what about your injury? If you travelled, it must be-"

"My injury is fine, Poirot. It's your injuries we need to worry about now." I replied. Seeing he still looked a little sad, I pulled him to me and kissed the crown of his head. He looked up and held my gaze for a few moments, before pulling me down and kissing me properly.

" _Mon ange_ _…_ " he whispered quietly once he'd finished kissing me senseless. Still slightly dizzy from his intoxicating kisses, I merely smiled in reply. He lent against my shoulder, and it was in this position we remained until I was forced to leave.

* * *

Poirot was freed from the hospital the next day. Jimmy had very kindly offered him a place in the household while he recovered. Poirot accepted gratefully, and soon we were both back together again. Jimmy had set it up so that Poirot and I shared a room, and while it was too dangerous for us to sleep in the same bed, simply being in the same room as my love was enough for me. There was hardly a time, save before bed and in the early hours of the morning, that we were alone, so any time we had to ourselves was mostly used to kiss ourselves to distraction.

I still went out with the boys to play cricket in the afternoons, but Poirot tended not to join me in those escapades – he never really understood cricket, and preferred to spend time talking to Cecilia and Charlotte, who had taken to him immediately. Therefore, it was quite the surprise to see him one afternoon across the park, walking towards us with the girls. They stopped and sat at a bench to watch us play, but I could see that Poirot's attention was focused on me alone.

I didn't feel his gaze leave me until the game had finished. Jimmy's team had won this time, with one of the younger boys managing to catch out our remaining batsmen at the last moment. The girls came over to congratulate and console the boys, depending on their respective teams. Poirot stayed on the bench, and I went to join him.

"Did you enjoy the game, Poirot?" I asked as I dropped into the seat beside him.

" _Oui_. It was most invigorating." He replied, turning towards me, a fire in his eyes. As he did so, the Alexson clan finished their discussion and had started to troop back up to the house, cricket gear in tow.

"Perhaps you'll consider understanding the game next time?" I smiled mischievously at him, and scooted a little closer.

"Perhaps…" Poirot seemed to dwell on this thought. "But only if it is to see you play, Hastings."

With a quick glance around to make sure everyone had left, Poirot pulled my head down and gave me a short, lust-driven kiss. When he broke away, I grinned at him, before leaning forward into another kiss.

" _T'es tres beau_ when you play the cricket, Arthur." He told me when we resurfaced for air. I flushed with pleasure.

" _T'es tres beau_ whenever I see you, Hercule." I replied with a smile. He smiled too, before kissing my cheek.

" _Merci, mon ange._ "

"You're welcome. Now," I rose from my seat, and offered my hand to him. "We'd better get going, or Cecilia'll have our heads for being late for tea."

He took my hand, and I helped him up. Sliding his arm into the crook of mine, we started off along the path towards the house, sharing indulgent smiles once in a while. Jimmy was right - there are few things in life that bring a pair closer together than injury and cricket.

* * *

_**Cricket Terms Explained** _

(This is based on my schoolboy encounters with the sport)

 _Six_ – The equivalent of six runs. If the batsman hits it out of bounds without the ball hitting the floor inside the boundaries, he or she gets a six. If the batsman hits it out of bounds with the ball hitting the floor inside the boundaries, he or she gets a four.

 _Catch Out_ – a way of getting the batsman out. It's where the hit ball is caught by a fielder without it touching the floor.


End file.
